Your Mark on my Soul
by xerxia31
Summary: A modern Everlark fairytale. Finding the person who shared your soulmark, the journey, and of course the end result, was the basis for nearly all of the stories and music of days gone by. But soulmarks are incredibly rare these days.


A/N: This was my entry for round two of the Everlark Games fic challenge, hosted on tumblr by fyeah-everlark. The theme was fantasy. It has been edited.

(This was my favourite of my three entries, and I'm considering posting a companion chapter, from Peeta's POV.)

* * *

Hundreds of years ago nearly everyone in Panem had a soulmark, a distinctive mark somewhere on their body that would match up with the soulmark of another person.

Their soulmate.

Finding the person who shared your soulmark, the journey, and of course the end result, was the basis for nearly all of the stories and music of days gone by.

But soulmarks are incredibly rare these days.

Nobody knows why, but each generation produced fewer and fewer soulmates. Soulmarks, and the few who bore them, fell out of favour, and began to be viewed with suspicion. No longer were songs written, and the stories were thought of as nothing more than myths.

Rare as they are, soulmarks, and soulmates, do still exist. Katniss Everdeen's parents were soulmates. As Katniss grew up the stories told in her home weren't faded or warped with nostalgia, they were fresh and alive, two people whose love was boundless, transcending social constraints and family objections. Their home in the woods was filled with light and joy and music; love infused every corner of the tiny house, painted every interaction, surrounded and cradled the soulmates and their two daughters.

Katniss, too, had a soulmark, a small bird in a circle on the inside of her wrist. Her father said she was special, that eventually she would find a love as rich and fulfilling as the one her parents shared. She was proud to be one of the select few, and thrilled with the idea that somewhere out there was someone to share her future adventures.

Then on a cold January morning when Katniss was eleven her world shattered. Her beloved father was killed in a car crash, and her mother, her kind, laughing mother, might as well have died too. For weeks her mother laid in bed, crying and kissing her own soulmark - a delicate fern that adorned her knee - unresponsive to her children's begging and pleading. Katniss tried to take care of her little sister, Prim, and their mother, but she was just a child herself. Eventually someone, a neighbour perhaps or a school teacher, called Child Protective Services, who took the Everdeen girls away. They were placed with an uncle they barely knew in a city far away from the tiny house full of love.

And Katniss stopped believing in soulmates. Stopped believing in love at all.

* * *

Katniss hates this time of year, with pumpkin spice this and ginger spice that popping up on the menu of the coffee shop where she works, hates the cozy sweaters and rosy cheeks that her customers sport, hates the cold air that seeps in when customers hold the shop doors open too long. Autumn used to be her favourite season when she was a little girl, when leaves of orange and red carpeted her forest playground and tendrils of smoke curled from the chimney of her happy little house, but here in the city fall just means darkness creeps in earlier with each passing day.

Today's been busy; she's spent what feels like the entire day making the seasonal lattes everyone wants, and she's exhausted and cranky. She's been on autopilot for at least an hour, not registering a single face as she hands steaming cups across the counter. She doesn't even notice that she's made a cup of tea instead of pumpkin swill until the hand of the person reaching for the cup brushes against her own.

A current of electricity shoots up her arm and she jumps, cradling her wrist tightly against her body. Her head snaps up and she's looking into startled blue eyes filled with confusion. _He felt it too_ , she thinks.

"Sorry," he says softly, and it's almost a question. Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out and for a few moments they simply stare at each other. As the initial shock fades she starts to actually see him; medium height, stocky build, ashy blond hair that falls in waves over his forehead. Definitely attractive.

The visual connection is severed when a huge-breasted blonde drapes herself over the blue eyed stranger, and his eyes flit away. Katniss shakes her head, dissipating the fog that clouded her mind, and goes back to working. She blames the steamed milk for the flush she feels spreading across her face, not the eyes of the stranger that seek her out twice more as he's dragged from the coffee shop. Not that she's watching.

* * *

She feels him before she even sees him, a prickle that starts at the base of her spine and spreads like wildfire through her limbs. She knows even before she turns from the table she's wiping down that he's here. When she lifts her gaze she's looking into those blue eyes that have haunted her dreams since she first saw them three days ago.

He's alone today, staring intently at her, equal parts eager and wary. She suspects her own expression mirrors his, but she schools her features into a mask and moves behind the counter. "What can I get for you," she asks in a voice too high and tight to be her own. He startles, as if he hadn't realized she was real, and a flush rises up his neck. Her eyes trace the rosy path as it traverses his strong jaw.

"Earl Grey tea, please." His voice is deep and husky and she involuntarily squeezes her thighs together.

"What's your name?" she asks softly and his eyebrows twitch. "Uhm, for the cup," she clarifies, waving the marker in her hand half-heartedly. _For the cup. Sure._

"Peeta."

She takes his cash and hands him his beverage, careful not to let their hands brush. As he backs away, looking almost dazed, she smiles shyly at him, which is notable for its rarity; she seldom smiles at anyone but Prim.

* * *

The next time she sees him he's wrapped in a leggy redhead.

Katniss only has a handful of friends, she's never had much time for socializing. Annie and Madge are pretty much it, and she only sees them a few times a month. But Annie is dating someone new, and when she begs Katniss to come to his party she can't refuse.

Finnick, Annie's new guy, shares a narrow rowhouse with three other men. Tonight it's packed with people, the air thick with cologne and sweat. Someone presses a bottle of beer into her hand and she chugs it, desperately needing the social lubrication. Katniss is not a people person.

She cracks open bottle number two and wanders from room to room, scanning the crowd for familiar faces. Her body begins to hum; she thinks it's the alcohol until she sees the now familiar mop of blond hair. He's seated on a faded couch, a girl with fox-like features straddling his lap, her glossy red mane obscuring his face. But Katniss knows it's him. Moments later he seems to sense her presence too, pulling back to glance over the girl's shoulder, meeting Katniss's eyes, a collision of grey and blue.

The pull is magnetic, but she forces herself to turn away, to walk out of the room. She feels his eyes burning between her shoulder blades as she does, and she can't understand the unpleasant feeling that bubbles up from her gut.

She finds a tall, dark-eyed man to make her forget, if only for the night.

* * *

"Who _are_ you?" The voice doesn't surprise Katniss, she knew the moment he entered the nightclub where she tends bar, could feel his presence deep in the marrow of her bones. Before she can turn to fully face him someone else chimes in.

"A better question is who are you?" Johanna, one of the waitresses, slips between them and runs a finger down his bicep. Katniss swears she sees him wince before he fixes his features into an almost predatory smirk as he takes in Jo, whose blouse can barely contain her ample tits.

"Peeta Mellark," he says, his eyes flitting over Jo's shoulder briefly, to ensure Katniss is still listening. "I'm with the Mockingjays."

"A musician," Johanna purrs. The Mockingjays are scheduled to perform there all week. Katniss has never heard of them, but her schedule doesn't leave much time for indulgences like popular music anyway. "I'm Johanna Mason," the waitress continues, "and I'll be your groupie tonight." Katniss snorts.

"He has plenty of groupies already, Jo." Katniss goes back to checking the bar inventory, they open in an hour and it's likely to be packed tonight.

"Ignore Brainless over there," she hears Jo say behind her. "She has all the charm of a dead slug. I'll take you backstage."

* * *

They're good, the Mockingjays. Annie's guy is the lead singer, which Katniss vaguely remembers him saying when they met a week ago though it made no impression on her at the time.

Peeta plays guitar, and he's riveting; his carefully styled waves turn into a riot of curls under the hot stage lights, the muscles in his forearms pull and flex as he caresses the strings. During the few lulls at the bar Katniss can scarcely tear her eyes away from him.

The drink orders rush in like a river when their set is over, keeping Katniss busy as the band works the crowd, but after closing she slips backstage to congratulate the musicians.

The small space is filled with people. Finnick is deep in conversation with the bar owner. The other band members and stage hands are crowded in with servers and fans who've been invited back. She looks for Peeta and isn't surprised when she spots him in the corner, a half-dressed coed on each knee. She sees his easy smile fall when he notices her presence, but she walks away before they can make eye contact, introducing herself instead to the drummer, a handsome lad with huge hands who's more than happy to take her home.

* * *

"Katniss." It's the first time he's said her name, and it sounds like music falling from his lips. She smirks at him and he looks inordinately pleased with himself. He stalks closer, until her back hits the bar, and leans in, setting his hands on the smooth wood behind her, caging her in but not touching her. The hot cinnamon scent of his breath caresses her cheek.

"Hello, Peeta," she murmurs, and his pupils dilate, the summer blue nearly vanishing. He's breathing too hard for just standing still, and she can't keep her eyes off the pulse in his throat. She wants to run her tongue over that fluttering point.

"Will you stick around tonight, after our set?" he asks, the longest string of words he's ever given her. She shrugs, but it's coy; she'll stay and he knows it.

* * *

He's not surrounded by groupies tonight, and he doesn't want to stay in the green room with his mates. They walk to an all-night diner instead, and over onion rings they talk and flirt. He's a student, like she is, taking his master's in art education. He's estranged from his family and the guitar gigs pay his rent and tuition. She shares her own basics, dead parents, living with a sister and uncle, working her way part-time through a biology degree. He loves the city, she loves the forest. He likes orange, she prefers green.

Though they have little in common the pull between them is palpable, a smouldering attraction, a sexual tension, but also something deeper. They just click. She likes him, enjoys his company, wants to learn everything that makes Peeta Mellark tick. For the first time in her life she finds herself thinking about dating instead of just no-strings screwing.

But she definitely wants him.

So when he drops her at her apartment at sunrise without so much as a kiss she's crushed.

* * *

She tries to avoid him after that but it's impossible, he's always around and he's persistent, he tells her over and over that he wants to spend time with her. Away from the others he's sweet and almost a little shy, funny and kind and they're always eerily in sync with each other's thoughts and moods. Though it stings that he doesn't want her sexually, they eventually, if somewhat reluctantly on her part, fall into a comfortable friendship, and she truly enjoys spending time with him.

She tells herself it doesn't hurt to see him with his nearly endless string of one night stands. That it's better being his friend, being the one he shares the important parts of his life with instead of his bed.

* * *

Just after Thanksgiving, Katniss is hanging out at Finnick's house with the band, Annie, Madge, Johanna and a couple of overly made-up girls she's never seen before. More of Peeta's 'friends' she guesses. She's contemplating a third slice of pizza when Finnick clears his throat.

"Annie and I have an announcement to make," he says as the group falls silent. "We're getting married." There are gasps and cheers, and Katniss has to fight to keep her expression neutral. Married? They've known each other eight weeks!

"That's really quick." Peeta's words echo her thoughts. Finnick nods thoughtfully, but Annie is exuberant.

"We just know, this is it, there's no point waiting. I think we might be soulmates!" Katniss scoffs, but quickly covers the sound with a cough.

"Look," Annie continues, undeterred, "we both have marks on our hands, we match!" She holds her hand, palm up, for the room to inspect. There's a small scar at the base of her thumb, most likely from a childhood injury. Finnick has a similarly placed scar that's clearly a long-healed burn.

"Soulmates aren't real, Annie," Peeta says, his voice low and expression unreadable. And though he's speaking to Annie his eyes never leave Katniss.

* * *

After another brutal day at the coffee shop shilling gingerbread lattes and peppermint mochas, Katniss is thrilled that Prim has dinner ready when she gets home, even if it's just macaroni and cheese from a box. The girls collapse on the couch together to watch television, practically inhaling the slippery, overcooked noodles. Prim's a terrible cook, but Katniss appreciates the effort.

A trashy show highlighting local celebrities blares while Katniss plays on her phone, tuning out the drivel about dresses and designers that Prim can't get enough of. But when she hears the ridiculously affected accent of host Effie Trinket she glances up. Effie's hair colour of the week is always entertaining. But she recoils in shock as she sees who is sitting across from the now pink-haired host.

"Holy shit, it's Peeta," she breathes and Prim's eyes go wide.

"That's the manwhore from the bar?" Katniss wrinkles her nose, she'd been upset when she'd called him that, angry and hurt by his rejection, and while it's technically a valid description she doesn't much like hearing it now. But she's too engrossed watching him to do much more than nod.

The interview is the typical garbage for these shows, though Peeta charms with his twinkling eyes and self-effacing humour. When the conversation turns to his private life, however, he's uncharacteristically taciturn.

Then Effie flashes a picture up on a screen behind her. Dark and grainy, probably from a cellphone, the shape is one that Katniss has seen ten thousand times, and her heart starts pounding.

"One of your ex-girlfriends provided us with this picture, Peeta dear," Effie explains, though the sour expression on his face suggests Peeta has already figured that out. "You have a soulmark!"

Katniss doesn't hear his response, or anything else from the interview. Her eyes are fixed, absolutely unblinking, on the faint image still projected behind the host. Unmistakably a bird inside a circle, head bowed, wings outstretched.

Prim turns to Katniss, a pensive look on her sweet face. "Katniss, don't you have..." she starts, but Katniss cuts her off with a sharp look that leaves no room for argument before stalking away.

Katniss has kept her soulmark covered with long sleeves, cuff bracelets and wrist guards ever since her father's death. Prim was only 7 then, Katniss assumed she'd forgotten. Apparently not. But Prim doesn't bring it up again.

* * *

Peeta's mark, and his reaction to it being broadcast, makes a minor stir for a few weeks on local television and some fan sites and blogs. Girls show up at the club, and at other venues where the Mockingjays are playing, sporting new tattoos modelled after the cellphone shot heard 'round the city. He's miserable.

His friends torment him, offering to set him up with a soulmark matching internet service to find his _one true love_.

Katniss doesn't participate in the teasing. She can't avoid him completely, he's inexplicably everywhere, but she doesn't engage him in chatter of any kind, retreats from him as much as she can, even though she can tell her distance hurts him.

She's afraid.

He finally corners her one evening, when she's stepped out the backdoor of the club to cool off. The season's first snow swirls around them, the flakes get caught in his outrageously long lashes as he sits on the stoop beside her. "Why aren't you making fun of me, like the others?"

She laughs tightly. "What makes you think I'm not," she says, and he smiles reluctantly.

"You know what I mean," he says after a beat, and she nods. She does.

"I guess because I agree with you," she admits. "Soulmates are just fairy tales." He reaches for her hand and his eyes hold hers hostage. Her heart speeds up.

"My mother always said the mark was a curse," he admits. "Said it would bring me nothing but misery." She squeezes his hand and he shivers. "I can't leave my fate in the hands of a birthmark. I want to control my own destiny."

She nods, she made the same decision years ago, and knowing about his mark, knowing that he's the one, he's her soulmate, it doesn't change a thing for her. If anything, it makes her even more determined to hide, to keep him at arm's length. It's better this way, really. There are no _what ifs_ to haunt her.

* * *

Annie and Finnick rent a cabin outside of the city for their wedding, and they all plan to spend a few days there before the New Year's Eve ceremony. Katniss hasn't been outside the city at all in over a decade, and that alone would have been enough to convince her to come, but she lets Annie beg anyway.

Peeta offers to drive her there, and they arrive a day before the others, spending an afternoon exploring the area together. The cabin is much larger than the little cottage where she lived as a child, but the snow-covered woods surrounding it fill her with a plaintive ache of nostalgia.

It's just the two of them, Peeta hasn't brought a bimbo along this weekend, she hasn't seen him with one since the broadcast. Katniss hasn't been with anyone since before then either. As night falls they sit side by side in companionable silence, her head on his shoulder, watching the fire and sharing a bottle of gin.

She's warm and buzzing, beyond caring about the future when he leans in. It's wrong, it's so wrong and she should stop it, but his lips are soft and his hands trail fire everywhere they touch. "Fuck," Peeta breathes against her lips, "I have wanted to kiss you since the first moment I saw you."

She pulls back then, her brows furrowed. "I thought," she starts, but his mouth reclaiming her own stops her words as he presses her back into the couch, covering her body with his own.

"You're so sexy, Katniss," he moans, palming her breasts through her sweater and she arches into him. "So gorgeous, so incredible. You have no idea, the effect you have…"

"Peeta," she sighs in acceptance and he grunts, scooping her up like a sack of flour and walking her to the first bedroom he finds. She knows he's just lonely and horny but she wants him so bad, has wanted him since he first walked into her life, and if one night is all she can get, well, it'll have to be enough.

They kiss with abandon, writhing and grinding, tongues and teeth teasing and tasting. He whips his shirt over his head and hovers over her, like something out of a novel, sculpted chest glowing in the moonlight, blue eyes full of need and something else. Something more. It makes her heart flutter uncomfortably.

She sees it then, his soulmark, on the inside of his bicep, the match to her own. She wants to press her lips to it, is leaning in to do so in fact when the memory surfaces. Her mother, broken and sobbing, brushing her lips repeatedly over her own soulmark as she wailed for her lost love. Katniss freezes.

She sits up so quickly he's knocked backwards, surprise and fear registering on his face. "I… I can't," Katniss says, her eyes never leaving his arm.

He follows her line of sight and scowls. "Is this about the mark?" he asks, anger flooding his handsome face. "I told you it's meaningless! I want you, Katniss, not some fantasy woman who probably doesn't even exist!" But she's already scrambling off the bed; she needs to run away, she can't face him. "Katniss, don't do this," he wails as she reaches for the door. She doesn't understand his distress, he'll find another fuck toy, it won't even take a day. "Please," he whimpers. "You know I don't believe in any of it!"

"I know you don't," she says softly, fighting back the tears that threaten. "But I think I do."

* * *

She staggers into another bedroom and falls onto the bed, finally letting herself cry. She's already a goner, he's wormed his way so tightly into her heart and life that sleeping with him only to have him discard her afterwards like all of the others would destroy her. If only she'd realized that before letting it get as far as it did. She's probably ruined their friendship now too.

* * *

Katniss doesn't know how many hours have passed when the bedroom door creaks open, enough that she's exhausted and sober, but not enough to have helped with the burning embarrassment she feels.

He's silhouetted in the doorframe, so she can't see his face, but she can feel his frustration. "Where is it?" he asks, his voice low and rough.

"What?" she sniffles, struggling to sit up as he closes the door behind him and stalks towards her. When he gets to the bed his face is illuminated by a shaft of moonlight, eyes red-rimmed and puffy.

"Don't fuck with me, Katniss!" She startles, but it's not anger radiating off him in waves. It's desperation. He grabs her arm before she can protest.

She doesn't try to stop him as he loosens the velcro that keeps her wrist brace in place. He gasps as it falls away, though he can't possibly be surprised to see her soulmark. The one that matches his own. "It's you," he whispers.

He lowers himself to sit beside her, holding her hand in both of his, thumbs gently stroking the delicate skin of her wrist but never actually touching the mark. She can hear him struggling to catch his breath.

"Why didn't you tell me," he finally says, and the raw anguish in his words sets off another torrent of tears.

"I couldn't," she admits, gasping. "You were so angry, so dead-set against having a soulmate. And I was terrified of falling in love… but it's too late on that account."

His blue eyes lock on hers and it feels like he's staring into her soul before she looks away.

"I wondered," he murmurs almost to himself, "right from the first time I saw you. I wondered if you could be the one. I've never wanted anyone the way I want you. When you touch me I feel like my blood is on fire."

She glances up at him then, but his eyes are fixed on her wrist, his fingers still circling the mark cautiously. "Then I got to know you... fuck you scare the shit out of me, Katniss." She's confused, there's nothing remotely frightening about her, she's not very big, not even particularly pretty. But when he lifts his eyes to hers she understands, she can see the longing there. "You're so smart and funny and strong... The way I feel about you, Katniss. It terrifies me. You make me want things I never thought I'd have. You make me want _always_."

"Me too," she admits. There's no point lying anymore. "I'm in love with you, Peeta."

Her words trigger something in him, his expression softens, his eyes fill with light. Cautiously he lowers his head and brushes his lips against her wrist. "I love you too, Katniss," he admits.

The feeling that infuses her can only be called bliss.

They move together much more slowly this time, not cautiously or tentatively, simply a languid mutual exploration, a confirmation that they no longer need to rush because they have forever. When they're finally joined she feels whole for the first time in her life. Like she's recovered a piece of herself she never even knew was missing. As he moves in her he sings sweet affirmations, even as her body dances to his song.

And after, twined tightly together, he tells her; "Real."


End file.
